


Abacus

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Incest, M/M, PWP, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor decides to meld his two loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abacus

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for spacesuki’s “finwe/feanor/maedhros - worship” prompt on [the my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). I didn’t use ‘Ata’ in this one, as while I like that one word, I would’ve also needed grandfather and like to keep fantasy-language words to a minimum for the sake of my head and informal readability.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He has his own chambers, of course, and his wife’s, though they haven’t spent the night together in many years, and likely won’t for many more to come. They have an understanding. She does as she wishes, discreetly, and even more so, he does... _this_.

He comes to his father’s bed, slips his legs beneath the silken sheets, and props himself up in the plush pillows, shoulder resting on the elaborate headboard. He’s turned to face his father, as he always likes to be, and he lifts his fingers to stroke through Finwë’s long hair while he waits. His own locks are similar, certainly more so than Finwë’s other children. All of Curufinwë is closer. They’re the most connected in every way, and each time Finwë leaves to visit them, Curufinwë doesn’t _understand_ , because he endeavors to be all his father needs.

He’s the most loved, of course. He sees it, can feel it, and Finwë tells him, takes his chin and tilts him up for a chaste kiss. Curufinwë has never seen him treat his other children this way, although Curufinwë suspects Ñolofinwë desires it, and foolishly attempts to steal Curufinwë’s father away. 

Curufinwë is _greater_ in all respects, and he brings Finwë greater gifts. They lightly touch until this gift arrives, stroking and toying but resisting peeling back their robes. Time with his father is so very _precious_ to Curufinwë. And he’s pleased that all his sons feel the same. 

When the grand doors press open, they emit only the one: Curufinwë’s firstborn, his valiant prince, taller than but now as old as Curufinwë was when he first seduced his lover into his bed. Their own connection is only recent, though the undercurrents ran for many years. Nelyafinwë turns to shut the doors behind himself, his long, copper hair cascading in waves down his straight spine. His robes are thin and loose, as expected, amber per Curufinwë’s taste. His movements are slow, though he can be quite quick on his feet. He faces them again, eyes politely averted to the floor. There might be nervousness in them, in all the tension of his lithe frame, but Curufinwë can see the excitement underneath. He extends his arm, palm open, and drawls, “Come here, my Nelyo.”

Nelyafinwë sucks in a breath and sweeps forward instantly. Curufinwë watches him, always enjoying the grace with which he glides, though from the corner of Curufinwë’s eye, he watches Finwë’s reaction as well. Nelyafinwë is a marvelous creation, but Curufinwë wishes to impress more than himself. 

At the foot of the bed, Nelyafinwë glides onto all fours, stalking across the mattress like an animal in the hunt, fluid yet hungry. The parted front of his robes hang beneath him, revealing a pretty view of his flat chest, smattered with freckles over darkened skin, rich in hue and shimmering in the torchlight that lines the room. Nelyafinwë crawls straight to them, then rises to his knees, his hands landing on them, thighs tight together and head bowed. He’s a vision of pure beauty. 

Curufinwë reaches forward to adjust him all the same. Curufinwë finger-combs back his hair, draws a few red strands down his shoulders, and dips a finger into his robes to tug the neckline a little deeper, showing off a greater expanse of his taut stomach. Nelyafinwë is still throughout it, used to his father’s touches and perfection.

When Curufinwë is satisfied with the presentation of his treasure, he settles back against his father’s arm, which is draped across the wooden headboard. Schooling the vanity from his voice, he asks, “What do you think, Father?”

Finwë smiles softly. He’s always been less critical than Curufinwë, more patient, though he still deserves only _the best_. His eyes rove slowly down Nelyafinwë’s body, over his long lines and supple curves, then climbs again to his face. With the arm that isn’t over Curufinwë’s shoulders, Finwë reaches forward. He slips his fingers beneath Nelyafinwë’s chin and tilts it up, thumb climbing to press down on his bottom lip. Nelyafinwë obediently opens his mouth, though Finwë merely chuckles and presses his jaw closed. With a sigh of contentment, Finwë announces, “You have grown very beautiful, Nelyo.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Nelyafinwë answers, in a purr worthy of Kanafinwë. His lips curl with his grin, though he’s clearly trying to restrain it. He glances once at Curufinwë before settling back on Finwë. 

Finwë tilts Nelyafinwë’s head first to one side, then the other, before stroking gently down his throat, along his chest, finally to his waist, where his sash still holds his robes together. Nearly to himself, Finwë murmurs, “Very impressive.”

Pride swells in Curufinwë’s chest, though he doesn’t show it. He can see how pleased his father is, and that gives him immense satisfaction. He’s always craved Finwë’s attention, and though he holds it better than any other, he’s glad to cross a line: Ñolofinwë would _never_ offer a gift such as this. He has nothing so valuable to compete; his own sons pale in compassion to Nelyafinwë, and all of Curufinwë’s sons are similarly lovely. Finwë’s hand idly dances along Nelyafinwë’s still form, eyes full of approval that heats Curufinwë like nothing else: it isn’t just that he presents this gift, but that he _created_ it. Nelyafinwë clearly thrives under the attention, just as his father, but he’s better at hiding his preening than his brothers might be. He’s born to be a leader, a captain, but here he falls last before two older kings, and he’s just as strong in that role. 

“You would not object to sharing him among us, then?” Curufinwë finally asks. Nelyafinwë bites down on the corner of his lip, clearly fighting to remain silent, while Finwë smiles wider.

But Finwë shakes his head and sighs, “I do not know that I could. Does one elf deserve such gems, when I already have the brightest of all?” Though Curufinwë appreciates the compliment, more than words could say, he protests. 

He turns more to his father, one leg hooking over Finwë’s beneath the blankets, and his hand presses to Finwë’s chest. “Father,” he scolds, quiet but insistent, “You disparage yourself too much. You are no mere elf, but a _king_ , and you deserve any gem you should like.”

“You will have the Valar themselves jealous of me,” Finwë laughs. “I already thought I tempted them once when I had you, but you have continued the line well...”

“And you should have all the fruits of it,” Curufinwë purrs, leaning in to brush his lips over Finwë’s cheek. When he pulls back, his smile becomes coy, and he adds, “Besides, if you will not, you force me to choose who’s bed I should like each night, when I would have both.”

Finwë smiles so very fondly at him. Curufinwë waits, and finally, Finwë sighs. He returns to Nelyafinwë, who’s waited patiently, and asks, “You wish this as well, Nelyo?”

“Very much so,” Nelyafinwë answers, nodding with delight behind his eyes. “I would be honoured.”

“Imagine,” Finwë mutters, shaking his head. “A young beauty such as this, _honoured_ to lie with an old man like myself.”

Curufinwë would protest, but Nelyafinwë does first, wrinkling his nose to counter, “You are not _old_ , Grandfather. At least, not a fraction as much as I hope you endure. Your soul is still vibrant, and your body appears only a little more aged than Father’s, and him barely more so than I. You are as handsome now as you have ever been.”

“I should hope not,” Finwë chuckles, but he smiles for the words. Curufinwë’s hand, having dropped to Finwë’s lap, squeezes Finwë’s thigh. It’s his way of saying that he agrees. He wastes no more time than that. He intends to make this irresistible before Finwë can change his mind. 

When Curufinwë reaches for his son, Nelyafinwë comes forward immediately, going where Curufinwë guides him. Curufinwë has to shift his own legs away to give Nelyafinwë room, lead up to straddle Finwë’s lap. Finwë’s own hands lift to catch Nelyafinwë’s hips, and Nelyafinwë takes hold of Finwë’s shoulders, leaning in to murmur in Finwë’s ear, “I have wished a long time for this, Grandfather.”

Finwë looks aside, giving Nelyafinwë room to lick along the shell of his ear, more pointed and pronounced than either of theirs. To Curufinwë, Finwë teases, “You have been holding out on me.” His eyes flutter closed, and Curufinwë knows from experience, both with Nelyafinwë’s eager mouth and Finwë’s pliant body, that his ear is being sucked.

“Is it difficult to believe that I would begrudge to share you?” Curufinwë returns. He places a kiss on his father’s lips, Finwë’s eyes still closed, and purrs, “But my Nelyo has proven loyal, and he has grown more than old enough to make his own decisions, and I would not deny him one so glorious. I have had my time with you alone. It is the proper time to grow what we have. Although...” In a deeper voice, Curufinwë dips down Finwë’s other ear, hissing into it for Finwë alone, “I have always loved you more than anything in this world, and I would deny you _nothing_ you asked.”

Finwë’s mouth is on his a moment later, fingers in his hair. They kiss hard, fast: a reward for Curufinwë’s good behaviour. He captures Finwë’s tongue with his own and suckles at it and plays with it as much as he can, before Finwë pulls away again to whisper, “You are exquisite.” Curufinwë grins. Finwë’s eyes say the rest, and Curufinwë _knows_ ; his father has furthered a line, made more to love that he won’t share this side with, but Curufinwë is his one _true_ love. Nelyafinwë makes a sudden whimpering noise, as though loathe to be forgotten. 

Curufinwë doesn’t wait any longer. He pulls at Nelyafinwë’s sash, drawing the ribbon free all in one swift, fluid motion, and Nelyafinwë plucks the delicate fabric from his shoulders. He lifts on his knees and lets it all fall away. He’s left in nothing, bare and more beautiful than Curufinwë could conceive of. He has to eye Nelyafinwë’s naked body for himself, but when he’s done, he watches Finwë, who _devours_ the sight before him.

After a moment of this, Finwë murmurs, “You look as your father does, in places.” He places one hand on the hard jut of Nelyafinwë’s hipbone, tracing down it. Nelyafinwë’s face dons a pinkish tone beneath his freckles. He looks as though he’s never been given a greater complement. He’s the right shape and bears the same restrained fire, but he doesn’t bear as much of a resemblance as Curufinwë’s Curvo. The changes are all pleasant ones. Finwë’s fingers stroke downwards, ruffling through the small patch of trim, dark hair that stands above Nelyafinwë’s shaft, and then he takes hold of the prize. 

Nelyafinwë gasps immediately, his hips bucking forward. Curufinwë can’t help but smile; he has the same reaction to his father’s touch. He takes hold of Nelyafinwë’s thigh, pressing him back down and holding him still, while Finwë deftly toys with Nelyafinwë’s long shaft. Curufinwë coos, “Did you prepare yourself as I asked you to, Nelyo?”

“Of course,” Nelyafinwë answers, though a tad breathless. He connects with Finwë’s eyes and nearly begs, “I have had the pleasure, numerous times, of riding the instrument that made me. But I am eager to ride that which made _him_.” Indeed, he looks eager for it. His chest has arched forward, cock hardened in Finwë’s hand. Even his rosy nipples stand at attention, brown and pink and pebbled lightly in the middle, just begging to be licked. All the teeth marks that Curufinwë’s scattered about them in the past have faded; Nelyafinwë heals as quickly as any Noldor, though he’s always pleased to receive new marks and signs of his father’s claim. 

Finwë’s robes are still fastened, but Curufinwë takes care of that. He reaches between them to spread the opening wider, down to where the sash holds the sides together. Curufinwë loosens it, then slips inside from above, taking hold of the hard shaft that waits for him. When he pulls it free, Nelyafinwë’s breath hitches. Curufinwë understands. He strokes his father’s cock once, just to feel the thick girth in his hands, palm brushing along the familiar lines of veins, thumb rising to the veiled tip that he’s had in his mouth more times than he could count. He’s mapped this masterpiece out with every part of him, and still he appreciates its magnificence. Nelyafinwë murmurs, sounding both heavily aroused and restless, “I did not know they came so large...”

“I have been told I am well-endowed,” Finwë chuckles, his hand offering Nelyafinwë a momentary squeeze, which earns a quick gasp. “It is something your father inherited from me. Although you do not fall much short yourself...”

“I am considerably longer than most I have met,” Nelyafinwë answers dazedly, before colouring and insisting, “Not that I have seen many...”

“You are old enough and athletic,” Finwë assures him, “I would be surprised if you had not seen your share of cocks.” Nelyafinwë’s blush doesn’t at all diminish.

He mumbles, “I had thought surely none could be more so than father... although, it is not by much...” 

“You will like it more when you feel it,” Curufinwë cuts in. His own cock is stirring from the conversation and the sight, and he can see that Nelyafinwë is blossoming fast under Finwë’s talented attention. It wouldn’t be wise to wait much longer. So he slips his hand along Nelyafinwë’s rear, giving the taut cheeks a little squeeze before drawing them up. He spreads both cheeks apart, while two fingers slide down Nelyafinwë’s crack. His middle finger brushes over Nelyafinwë’s hole, appropriately wet with oil and noticeably stretched—he’s always very tight before preparation. Curufinwë’s finger still pops easily inside. He worms himself deeper, testing the stretch of his son’s walls, while Nelyafinwë breathes unsteadily and squirms between the pair of hands on his body. After a bit of stroking, Curufinwë adds a second finger, then a third, until he’s opening Nelyafinwë wide enough to take a cock so mammoth as his father’s. 

Only then does Curufinwë thrust Nelyafinwë forward, so that Nelyafinwë, startled, has to grab tighter to Finwë’s shoulders. With his other hand around the front of Nelyafinwë’s body, Curufinwë guides Finwë’s cock to Nelyafinwë’s hole, until the tip is nestled right against the puckered ring of muscles. 

Then Nelyafinwë takes over, rocking forward and running his hands up to either side of Finwë’s face. He leans forward, purring, lewd and _hot_ , “May I, my king?”

Finwë answers with a kiss, the first of theirs, full from the start. Finwë’s tongue slides right into Nelyafinwë’s mouth, Nelyafinwë opening wide in answer. They open and close a few times, tasting and surging against one another, until Finwë pulls Nelyafinwë back by the hair and turns to Curufinwë, ordering, “Have your son ride me, beloved.”

Curufinwë, stiff as a rock, squeezes a chunk of Nelyafinwë’s rear and growls, “Begin.”

Nelyafinwë doesn’t have to be told twice. He drops his weight, clearly trying to take it all at once, but it’s a skill he had to learn with Curufinwë and certainly can’t manage with Finwë’s incredible girth. He’s stopped, halfway down, crying out with his pretty face scrunching up. Finwë nips at his mouth, Curufinwë stroking down his spine, and he trembles, shakes, gasps and holds the back of his hand over his mouth, which Curufinwë pulls away. He wants nothing of this perfect creature hidden. Nelyafinwë rocks his body forward, takes deep, shuddering breath, and pulls a little ways up, before sliding down as much as he can. He grunts while he does it, straining, and Finwë pets back through his hair, murmuring, “Shh. Relax, Nelyo.”

Nelyafinwë nods, but it’s an order he can’t obey. He tries to take Finwë in little movements, up and back down again, his knees flexing to hold him and a wetness at the corner of his eyes from the burn. Curufinwë cried the first time his father took him, but it was mostly from joy. 

He leans his head on Finwë’s shoulder, mainly to see a better angle of what goes on below. Finwë’s hand is still locked around Nelyafinwë’s cock, though not pumping it any longer. Curufinwë moves to join it, but first gathers Nelyafinwë’s tight balls, holding them up and out of the way. He bids, “Tilt your hips forward for me, Nelyo,” and Nelyafinwë does so, after another choked breath. It allows Curufinwë to see the stretch of his pink brim, impaled by Finwë’s rippled cock. Oil glistens at Nelyafinwë’s edges, but it’s still a very wide stretch, and their skin is reddened for it on both ends, flushed and aroused. Curufinwë watches until Nelyafinwë has sunk all the way to the base and can sit down on Finwë’s thighs. 

He needs a moment there, which both his elders give him. They touch him lightly though it, admiring different parts of his body, and he always presses into their hands. Eventually, he braces himself again, though first ducks down for another fierce kiss. 

Through the kiss, Curufinwë lifts him, one hand fisting in his rear and the other still holding his cock and balls. Nelyafinwë’s groan is muffled in Finwë’s mouth, Finwë not allowing him to leave. Curufinwë slides Nelyafinwë up as high as possible before shoving him suddenly down, and Nelyafinwë cries out for it, his breath again stolen away.

On the next one, he doesn’t need to be guided. He lifts up on his own accord, only to drop, then to do so again, faster, then harder, increasing until the tempo is a steady beat of lewd slapping sounds and the stench of sex. Nelyafinwë kisses Finwë as much as he can, alternatively stroking through Finwë’s hair and clinging to his shoulders. Finwë holds Nelyafinwë in return, exploring all his body. 

Nelyafinwë is an excellent rider. His body arches artfully with each thrust, and he maintains his kisses through it, the copper waves of his hair bouncing along with the flesh of his thighs. He’s flushed in several places, redder in others where one of his elders has scratched or pinched him; it’s difficult not to play _rough_ when Curufinwë knows he can take it and so desires to have this prize _marked_. He wants all to know that his precious son belongs to _him_ , and of course, to his father, as all his things do, although of course they must be discreet, for the Valar, in their cruelty, would deny Curufinwë this. They would leave poor Nelyafinwë’s ass empty and unused until another came along. And they would have Finwë fade without his favourite son to love him. Curufinwë alternates between them, sometimes touching Nelyafinwë, sometimes touching Finwë. They both feel divine. 

Nelyafinwë tries to do the same. He focuses mostly on pleasuring his grandfather, throwing himself again and again onto Finwë’s engorged cock, but he turns to Curufinwë when he can, leaning forward for stolen kisses. Curufinwë is reverent now, touching each in complete devotion, and Nelyafinwë worships them both in return. Finwë simply basks in the love and radiates as much as he’s given. He’s so gorgeous that Curufinwë could come from his proximity alone. 

Nelyafinwë is the one to finish first. He drives himself too hard to last long, and Finwë and Curufinwë alternate between touching his long cock, petting his sides and toying with his nipples, and of course using his mouth. It becomes too much, and he _roars_ when he finishes, wracked so hard with his orgasm that he seems to glow for it. His head tosses back, body arching up His cock splatters their hands, but Finwë grabs it to point upwards, so that it slicks all along Nelyafinwë’s chest. Curufinwë leans back to watch the muscles of Nelyafinwë’s hole twitch almost violently around Finwë’s cock. Finwë hisses in response, but he’s aged and practiced and withholds his release. Nelyafinwë goes and goes before collapsing abruptly, slumping down against Finwë’s chest. 

Finwë pets through his hair. Nelyafinwë pants, a thin sheen of sweat along his shoulder blades. He asks, raspy and hoarse, “Was I sufficient, Grandfather?”

“You were excellent, Nelyo,” Finwë answers, to Nelyafinwë’s elated smile. He whines in protest when Finwë carefully lifts him off. 

Curufinwë helps draw him aside. Nelyafinwë’s nestled against the headboard in the pile of pillows, his legs lifted and bent at the knee to show his gaping hole, slicked with oil but free of release. Curufinwë makes a mental note to fill him later. He’s been very good, and good boys in Tirion deserve their fill of seed. 

But Curufinwë’s been good, too. He makes to straddle his father’s lap without asking. He prepared himself earlier, but they took too long admiring one another for it to last, and he’ll probably need to be stretched and wetted a little more. Finwë, seeing his intent, sighs, “This is my lucky night.”

Curufinwë places a kiss on his cheek and replies, “May all your nights be thus.” Finwë laughs and draws at Curufinwë’s sash, freeing up his body. 

Then Finwë turns to purr, “Nelyo, be a good boy and prepare your father for me. I believe his entrance could make use of your tongue.” Blushing but grinning, Nelyafinwë nods and slinks back to all fours, ready to crawl. 

Curufinwë brings his lips to Finwë’s in the meantime and prays these nights never end.


End file.
